Sentry
by Razer Athane
Summary: "Because you are a good man," he says simply, switching hands, "And good men are hard to come by." -Oneshot- For TheNewBrawler.


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Tekken.

Author's Note: Not gonna lie – I struggled with this because UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY EVERYWHERE. This is for _TheNewBrawler,_ for being so inspirational, making me smile so damn hard with her magnificent prose, and for listening when I needed an ear. Thank you so, so much.

* * *

**SENTRY**

* * *

He is a small boy when he sees him for the first time, riding out on a white horse.

The faces frighten him for a fraction of a second, because it is so alien, unfamiliar, haunting – but from what he can see of the man's eyes as they lock squarely onto his, they show nothing but a gentle kindness and sparkling amusement. He straightens up and breaks the contact, looking to his parents, whose mouths open as the black box does – wide.

"Take and be merry!" the man hums.

He understands so little, but when he sees the papers fly and litter the grubby San Francisco streets, Forest knows that maybe, just maybe everything's going to be alright. He lowers his stick, the imaginary sword, the sentry he'd been pretending to be, and watches as the stranger and the steed vanish from the streets, wondering who, why, how.

When he glances back at his Mother and Father, he sees them scrambling around and trying to gather as much as they can. He doesn't understand why such a thing is so important and makes the world go around, but he does understand that, well, it's important enough to warrant even his attention. And so he helps, not missing the glint of tears that decorate the rim of his Mother's black-edged eyes, and the hope that he can feel swell in his Father's heart. Everything will be alright.

And as he gathers as many little green papers as his tiny fists can gather, he looks once more to where the stranger had been, smiles widely and thanks him for his strength and his kindness, though he's long gone.

* * *

He is two years older, two inches taller and two decibels quieter when he hides in the far corner and away from a man who has all but torn into his Father's dojo, seeking challengers, seeking _someone_. He doesn't understand why he burst into his Father's sanctuary without so much as a kind word, but when he sees his friends go down so easily, Forest wonders if he even has a chance.

He all but quickly deduces that he doesn't, and as he hides, he sees his Father run in and analyse the man – and in turn, his Father is analysed. Names are exchanged, and he catches something about beaks. Thick eyebrows furrow, almost dangerously, and although the fight that he sees is forced to a draw and a promise for a rematch in the next King Of Iron Fist, the man is indeed forced out.

As his Father quickly tends to the students that have fallen, the teenagers who thought they were strong and had their egos bruised, Forest looks out the window, watching as the shadows cast by the sun shift. And in the alleyway, he sees the man again. Not the one in the red leather jacket from moments ago, but the man from years ago.

He's different in all but his gaze. The man bows to him approvingly and then vanishes before Forest gets the chance to run outside and thank him for what he had done two years prior. And as he looks around the outside of his Father's dojo for signs of that metal armour and new hat, he finds that a part of himself inside crumbles with the frown he now wears on his face.

Perhaps he is seeing things, but either way, he feels better about the events and is standing taller.

He wears it hours later, even as he is at the dinner table with his parents and his fellow classmates have long been collected by scathing and infuriated parents. 'What kind of protection do you _really_ offer', one had shrieked, withdrawing her son from classes permanently. More money lost. And he still doesn't understand why it makes the world go around.

His Mother is washing the dishes when his Father speaks, hands folded in fronted of his chest, "Forest."

He looks up at him from his colouring book, dark eyes wide and attentive. He offers his Father a smile, hiding the disappointment in missing the mysterious man, and to try and make his Father feel better. It works for a fraction of a second, for one appears on his aging visage too.

"You did the right thing today."

"But I ran away," he says simply.

"And that was the right thing. That bad man was much stronger than you. By running away, you got yourself out of trouble. Sometimes it's better to run. Don't take on the fights you know that you can't win..." he offers a small smile in return as Forest tries to understand, "I think for a while, I'm not going to let you enter tournaments outside of the ones here. Just for a while."

Forest nods in agreement – he doesn't quite understand, but if it puts his Father at ease, he'll do it no problem. How long can a man worry?

* * *

"Dad, c'mon. I can win this."

"No."

Forest looks to Paul for support. Paul raises his hands, wanting nothing to do with this, and sinks further into the form-swallowing sofa. His blue eyes are transfixed on the blurry and flickering lights of the television before him. Something about motorbike sports.

He looks to his Father again, who is cooking up a new meal, a new recipe, one that he's inventing as he goes along for fun. He's sixteen now, not as tall as Paul but only a tiny bit taller than his Father. The training has never let up, not since the day that that man appeared – but surely Marshall is okay now?

"It's just one tournament," he tries again, hands flailing wildly and eagerly in the air as he spoke, "At school. It'll be monitored, there's an audience – you can even come and watch me win! I need to fight many _different _opponents to improve my skills. Even you've fought other peo -"

"You'll fight who I tell you to fight," Marshall spits, glaring at his food as though it's the filthiest thing in the world, "And that's final."

Defeated and feeling feebler than ever beneath his Father's sternness, he turns away on his heel and heads out, mumbling something about going to the mall for a few hours. He feels like he's being suffocated. His Mother won't let him date and his Father won't let him fight. How else is he going to grow into a man?

A man can worry for a long time.

* * *

He's picked the wrong time to go to the mall, because there's something about a robbery, and that he's walked right into it. He remembers back to years ago, when he chose not to fight, and Forest relents to the robber, being used as a hostage. He knows he can take him, but he worries about the safety of the others in the vicinity, and what his actions could cost him.

_Hell of a time to get money out of the bank,_ he muses to himself, watching the figures move around him. He tries to get his hands to stop shaking, but they tremble of their own accord.

There are the robber's comrades, and police in the distance trying to settle things. His gaze permanently settles, though, on an obviously foreign pair who just as stoic as he is. A woman in a white dress holds onto her young son's hand. Their black hair and neat attire stands out from the swarms of neon pants and oversized t-shirts. Before long, they turn their heads and leave, ignoring the scene as though it is nothing.

All too quickly, silver flashes before his eyes. He then realises that the robber that'd been holding him has let go, and when he spins around and sees _him_ again, his breath freezes as people scatter like shards of ice.

He is not seeing things, and he's not nervous anymore. No, not anymore.

The words fall from Forest's mouth like crumbs, "It's you."

"You have grown, little one," the man says simply, poised in a stance so elegant that it seems otherworldly. The outfit is the same as the second encounter, and he still can't see much besides the eyes glittering with – is that _glee?_ "Tell me that it is in more ways than one."

The man lunges for the robbers with a firm cry, and Forest does the same to the ones before him. And just as he knows, they both take care of them in seconds flat, much faster than the police could've ever reacted. And for the first time in a long time, Forest _breathes,_ feeling the rush that he needs to keep on growing.

But the man's already leaving again, and he'll be damned if he gets away from him this time. He catches up to him in a jog and places a hand on his shoulder, turning the body so that he can face him – and those eyes are still as amused as ever, "Don't leave so fast this time. What's your name?"

"You will see me again," he singsongs, all but twirling from his grasp and all but literally vanishing before his eyes.

Forest clenches his fists for a moment before relaxing.

* * *

For the next year, he searches, waits, wonders and never says a word to his family.

Not even a _name. _For someone who seems to remember him so clearly, he feels annoyed that he won't even give him his _name._ And to then say that they'd meet again? He exhales gruffly and scrolls and scrolls and scrolls until the text becomes one big blur.

A loud crack overhead forces the backlit monitor to blink once and then fizzle into darkness. Settling but still stressed and anxious, Forest sighs loudly and slams his fist on the keyboard, agitated. His homework had gotten away from him again from the memories and the curiosity, and a few very quick Google searches, even now, gave him no answers of any sort. Having said that, it's not like he'd been very thorough. His expertise lies in food and fists, not finding things and the internet.

He wheels away from the cramped desk and looks out the window into the muted darkness. Forest wonders all too much, according to his Mother. He should be focusing on his studies and his skills, and yet all he thinks on lately are things that he won't tell. She assumes he has a girlfriend. He laughs in her face, reminding her that she's forbidden him from having one until he's twenty-one.

Thunder strikes again, and he jumps back when he sees a face in the window. And as usual, all but the eyes have changed. His breath against the glass fogs it up, and Forest wonders if he's really that damn tired, or if this is real.

"Will you let me in? Tis rather cold out, you see."

He is really not seeing things.

Forest places a hand on the glass and then taps at it. The man jollily taps back in return.

He stands, the chair ricocheting off something or other in the room, and he unlatches the window, heaving it open. And just as swiftly as the man appeared, he slides through as the rain spits none too kind greetings in his face – at least until the glass shield is down once more.

When Forest turns, the man is sitting in his seat with one leg delicately crossed over the other. He tilts his head for a moment, and then of all things, asks, "How is thy homework coming along?" If he didn't know any better, Forest would swear the man's _smiling_ behind the new mask as he raises a finger, "Education is the safest path to knowledge, and knowledge is man's greatest weapon!"

"Really now, who are you?" Forest finally questions, sitting cross-legged on his bed, "You show up at random intervals in my life, like an imaginary friend, and you won't even give me your name."

"A name holds much power over an individual," he says simply.

"Do you even know _my_ name?" he questions, furrowing his eyebrows.

"...I do not."

The hesitance in the response forces a small grin as he leans forward, "You do! Say my name. Say it."

"I do not know your name," the man repeats, losing an edge of the calm, collected nature that he fought to maintain.

Too tentative to press further, Forest instead looks to the timber floor. His eyes follow the outline of their shadows, watching as they touch on the ground. His grin widens as he looks back to the man, who inspects his room as though it is a treasure trove of teenage wonders, "I'm calling you Robin Hood."

"And why would you call me such a thing, young one?" he shrills amusedly, leaning forward.

The grin shifts into a smile, "I think you know why."

The man – 'Robin Hood', now – pauses for a few moments before relaxing in the chair, leaning back. He hums, pleased, before craning his head to the left, where he hears footsteps approaching and a disgruntled older man.

He rises from the seat and heads to the window, lifting the glass, "I must flee."

"Why? We were just –"

Robin Hood leaves as quickly as he came, and when Marshall enters the room and asks what all the commotion is about, Forest is unable to give a reply without sounding like he is imagining things.

* * *

He's twenty-two-and-a-half and still without a girl.

_Some catch I must be,_ he wonders to himself, keeping a keen eye out for customers.

He's opened a small noodle shop not far from the business district of Chinatown. Business isn't booming, but it's not exactly stagnant, either. It gives enough to help, just as they take enough to fill their bellies.

Night has crept up much faster than anticipated. Stifling a yawn, he begins to pack up shop – at least, until he hears a shriek down the lane. Pocketing the money hastily, he treks down the pavement, following the sounds, until he finds a girl being mugged.

"Hey! Stop there!" Forest shouts with an authority that is not his own.

As the man brandishes a knife, he feels his heart quiver a little, but slides into stance anyhow. The fear soon stills, though, because although he wields a weapon, the man's tactic is weak, flawed and predictable.

Forest reads every swing, every kick like a book. It takes little thinking to spin left to evade the strike, and even less thinking to throw out a low kick to the man's right knee, because he is leaning much too heavily on it. The man buckles and lashes out again, but in a few quick moves, he is disarmed and on the ground.

"Now give the lady back what you stole," Forest reprimands, anger prickling beneath his skin.

It is a wallet and a gold necklace, he notes as he stuffs them into the ground before the woman's feet. Forest lets him go then, watching as he scampers away into the darkness.

Forest bends down, picks up the goods and holds them out to the woman, who takes them from his hands. She's shivering, and he doesn't have a jacket to offer, but he knows what he can give. With a smile, he speaks, "Come with me. You look like you could use something warm."

And so he leads her back to his noodle shop, which has been untouched, but there is a man waiting cross-legged before it. Forest squints in the darkness and finds that he is smiling widely. It's Robin Hood.

He quickly serves up a bowl for the woman, who begins to eat quietly and thankfully before getting a bowl for Robin Hood. As he walks around the cart, he squats down and sticks it in his hands, whether Robin Hood protests with gestures or not. And this time, behind the mask, Forest knows he is smiling as he says, "You've done well, young one."

Robin Hood then stands with the noodle bowl and vanishes, like he always does, and Forest's smile merely grows when the woman introduces herself.

* * *

Three years apparently means nothing to that same woman he saved from the mugger, he learns as he scrunches up the letter in his hand.

"You okay, Forest?" Marshall asks tentatively, monitoring him from his place on the couch beside the ever present and never budging Paul. He's about to rise from his seat, because Forest's silence worries him, but when he hears the slightest mutter, he relaxes again.

His relaxation is shattered when he hears a door slam. He looks again to find Forest gone and he sighs, looking to Paul. Paul can offer him nothing but a sympathetic, crooked smile. Intelligence soon sparks behind his tongue as he quips, "What do you expect from a man who hadn't been allowed to really explore his teenage years, Marshall?"

Damn his wife.

* * *

Damn her.

He's come to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, beneath the roar of the engines, and where there is a little more silence. Forest doesn't know where else to hide right now and sort out his thoughts, because face it, three years is a long time, and the wounds are still fresh.

He doesn't understand much, and he knows that. The sheltered life he had made it hard to understand things that he should've been well aware of by now. Betrayal, real battle, it didn't matter. He feels much younger than he actually is, and as he massages his scalp by the water, he wonders where the hell he really is in his life.

He's never been allowed to fight anybody outside of the dojo. He respects his Father's choice, but really now, he is much older, and the threat is gone... right? And the whole 'no dating until you're twenty-one' – did his Mother not trust him to be honourable and respectable? He cringes.

Forest eventually folds into himself, watching the haze across the water. When he reopens his eyes after closing them for a fraction longer than the standard blink, there stands Robin Hood, knee-deep in the water.

He doesn't know if he's imagining things.

"Life offers much cruelty, young one," he begins, remaining motionless in the gentle flow of the cold, "But we must battle through it, for there is much good that awaits us in the world."

"This is crap," he says simply to Robin Hood, standing to his feet. For a moment, he wonders if he's been crying at any point – at the very least, he is glad that Paul isn't around to see it, because he would've been mocked relentlessly.

Robin Hood chuckles and approaches in swift, military-like steps, "It does, but you must keep a level head. You are a good man. I would not have returned since the day I helped the poor village if thou weren't. But alas, the meetings must slow to a halt," he doesn't react when Forest's face drops, "You seem troubled by the information."

"You're leaving?" he croaks weakly.

"A great beast awaits in the future, one that I must inspect," Robin Hood replies delicately, raising his chin, "I must help those in need, protect my clan and help an ally, for they are in the lines of the monster's eyes. You are safe here, many waters away. Stay here."

As he starts to leave, walking by, Forest speaks, causing him to halt, "Are you real?"

A melodic laugh, "Am I real?"

Forest spins on his heel and glares at Robin Hood, acutely aware of the dampness on his round cheeks, "You only ever seem to appear out of sight of other people lately. Did you even give my family the money? Were you there when you helped me out of that situation at the bank? Or am I really just imagining you for when I need strength?"

Robin Hood pauses for several moments before turning to face him, still standing tall. He closes the distance between them and raises one hand, wiping away the fresh liquid that is yet to fall from dark eyes, "You do not need me for strength."

"What's your name?" he begs this time as the figure moves to leave through the growing mist.

He never answers.

* * *

When an aging Paul slides the pamphlet across the table, a lump forms in Forest's throat.

"Come with me," he merely says, scratching his stubbly chin.

Forest does not take it at first. Instead he reads carefully what he sees on the cover and – yes, this is where his Father had gone, this is why his Mother always looked so sad... This is why they always fought. This damn tournament – and yet, he can't take his eyes away from it.

"Dad won't let me participate in tournaments outside of the dojo, even now at twenty-eight. You know that. And don't call me a Daddy's Boy," Forest states firmly, pushing the pamphlet back in the man's direction. He smiles appreciatively and goes to turn back to the dishes, much to the disgruntled huff behind him. It vanishes somewhere into the background.

Weeks later, though, he learns something about himself. Forest is a liar.

Curiosity relentlessly nips at his mind. Many weeks later, when his Mother and Father are out but Paul remains, Forest sits beside him and after silence, he finally inquires, crossing one leg over the other and staring into nothing, "Tell me about the tournament."

"The one that old man Mishima runs?" Paul questions, continuing to brush his tower of blond hair. When he sees the kid nod from the corner of his eye, he shrugs, "Nothin' much to tell. A bunch of fighters looking for their chance at glory, I guess. They're all pretty good."

"And what about the contestants?" he presses.

"Oh," he furrows his eyebrows, trying to remember, "I remember a woman with blonde hair... Man, she was somethin'. Legs from here to – never mind," he trails off about other people, about animals, and then, "- and there was always that guy with the sword. Kept changing clothes, but from what I could see, he was a pretty decent guy. Peaceful even."

Forest freezes, "A guy with a sword? Do you know his name?"

"Couldn't tell you, kid. I was busy being drunk," he replies honestly, shrugging, "And the Iron Fist tournament's never been exactly... _public._ You wouldn't be able to find the names of anybody other than who had won. But maybe this year, after so long, that'll change," and he tries again, "Come with me."

A chance to see if Robin Hood's there. A chance to see him again, and yet he still hesitates like a child.

"You know you're good, Forest," Paul starts, seeing the weakness forming, "But I do wonder if you know exactly _how_ good you are against the world. I can tell you one thing, though – you're better than your Father."

That's all it takes. He snaps, breaks, and becomes a liar in the face of his Father.

* * *

He deliberately leaves his phone behind at home, but the flight to Tokyo with Paul is all but silent. Paul bustles on and on about how excited he is that Forest has come along, about how he can't _wait_ to see him try his luck against _real_ fighters. And he's not going to repeat that expletive statement about the other students that the aging fight just uttered.

Paul's far more excited than Forest is, because Forest not only feels guilty for betraying his Father's trust and word, but because he just can't stop wondering. Will Robin Hood be there? He remembers the event at the bridge, and the warning to stay several waters away. And he just can't help himself.

Imaginary or not, Forest needs him, because he does not believe he is strong enough anymore. And everybody needs a pillar of strength somewhere, somehow.

He waits in the dojo everyday and watches the people come and go. Paul loves the sandbag almost as much as the alcohol, but he never stays more than an hour at a time, becoming bored much too quickly. Forest will sometimes train too, but then he too is bored and instead watches and waits for any signs of Robin Hood.

There are none, but the man that's just entered the room makes the hairs on his arm stand, just as they do with every other participant he has seen. He watches as the man with the widow's peak runs through his katas as easily as breathing, and he has never seen such control or skill in a fighter before.

Forest cranes his head over his shoulder and finds a redhead watching just as intently, but with an added fire behind amber eyes. It is stronger than any punch the other man throws, even as his eyebrows furrow dangerously and he says without even looking, "Can I _help_ you?"

"He's a good fighter," Forest offers slowly, watching as his eyes narrow, and before he can backpedal, the man takes a deeper drag of the cigarette and turns to face him.

"He's not all that. Good, yeah, but not _amazing_," and he bites out that last word with such venom that Forest really wonders if he means what he's said. He can see the remains of pride, and then the pieces click. Somewhere along the way, the training man's damaged this one in a way that has seriously affected him, "Name's Hwoarang, by the way."

"Forest Law," and then he adds, "People seem to avoid him. Do you know why?"

"No idea," there's a pause that flies by hastily, "And why wouldn't people wanna avoid him anyway? Piece of shit brings the room down just by walkin' in," Hwoarang snits, smoke rising from his mouth as though he has a fiery breath. He turns on his heel and waves for Forest to follow him, "Let's walk. I'm sick of looking at his ugly face."

They don't venture too far, just to the pathway outside of the dojo, and they revel in the peculiar silence. Before long, Hwoarang asks Forest why he's in the tournament, and he really doesn't know how to respond other than 'a challenge'. He then turns the tides, "And you?"

"Lookin' for my master," he fiddles with something in his pocket and pulls it out, showing him a photograph as the embers on the edge of the cigarette begin to flicker and die, almost like his hope, "Haven't seen him before, have you? A little shorter than me. His name's Baek Doo San."

Forest studies the photograph, mouth ajar. That feeling of being a helpless child invades him once more as he inspects the image. As his eyes trace every sweep of his cheeks and shoulders, he knows that this man – beak – Baek – is the one who stumbled into his Father's dojo that long time ago. And if Hwoarang is his student, then he wonders if he is just as dangerous, if not more so.

He offers the photo back to Hwoarang carefully and nods, which surprises him. But before he can ask further questions, the chef begins to wring his hands and looks up at him, "I saw him once when I was a child. He stormed into my Father's dojo and attacked the students like they were just... targets. Like they were in the way and meant nothing."

"Baek is a _good man_," Hwoarang growls lowly, beyond annoyed at the insinuation. He doesn't utter another word to the stranger as he heads back to the hotel, dropping the withered cigarette and leaving it to die by the pathway.

Forest watches his figure retreat. Another soon stands beside him, and the familiar smell of oil invades his nostrils, "Is that the friend you were lookin' for?" A quick shake of the head answers him, and Paul shrugs, adjusting his gi.

* * *

The first two rounds of the tournament slide by unnoticed. Both Forest and Paul get through with no issue. He has not seen Robin Hood for the duration, but he does hear whispers of a man with a sword. As soft as they are, those whispers strengthen his hope in finding him, in finding a pillar of strength and actually having the proper chance to say 'thank you'.

It's the third round. Forest is yet to face his opponent – Hwoarang, ironically – but he is here supporting Paul against the foe that is yet to appear in the ring. Paul is confident that the man will not show, and he's already boasting it up to the crowd that he's gonna get to the semi finals no problem. 'Yoshimitsu' is the name of the fighter, but still, even now, he is nowhere.

But when Forest hears a voice and sees a man push through the crowd and appear on the stage, apologising for being late in a singsonging fashion, his blood freezes all over. He glares. He just _glares,_ even though now, after all of these years, he finally has a name. A proper damn name.

"Yoshimitsu," he breathes.

His head cranes to the left slightly, where he notices Forest, and he stiffens too. Perhaps out of surprise, maybe out of a tiny fear, but most definitely in surprise. As he slides into stance against the funny man with the towering hair, he murmurs, "I told you to stay oceans away."

The sound of a bell strikes through their skulls, and Paul roars. But at least Forest knows one thing – Robin Hood, or _Yoshimitsu,_ rather, has always been very real.

* * *

He visits Yoshimitsu in hospital the next day, having lost his own match against Hwoarang. He'd been very unfocused and, well, he underestimated the youth's strength – he was all fire, and Forest had been truly unprepared. But to him it's not about trying to prove that he's better than his Father, and it never was.

He's surprised to find the figure sitting up in his bed, but facing away. And yet as Forest approaches and constantly tries to see his face, he turns and he hides, holding what remains of his mask to his face. Sometime during the match, Paul had damaged it – a lot more than what it appeared to be initially, too.

"Do not look at me," Yoshimitsu hums lowly, holding the cracks together with his slim fingers.

"Why did you tell me to stay away?" Forest queries, clenching his fists. He doesn't get why he's so aloof towards him. It's not like he's gone out to kill him or anything, and he has only ever meant well – to become friends with the oddity, "So I wouldn't find you?"

"So that you would be safe, young one," he replies curtly, "Surely you feel darkness at this tournament."

"Sorry, I'm not very 'in tune' with the spiritual side of life," he grits, straightening up. He folds his arms across his chest and moves to stand at the end of the bed, glaring at the posies that the nurses had left him by the windowsill, "And I'm sorry that I chased you out here, but I need you for strength. I know that now for sure."

"It is as I told you before, young one – I am not needed for such a thing," he has not moved, "Strength does not come from another, it comes from within. And you, young one, have plenty of strength to spare and to give. Why is it that I am special to you?"

Because since that first meeting when he was a child, Forest _always_ thought of Yoshimitsu when he needed to be strong. Whenever he became scared, he would think of him and stand a little taller. And although Yoshimitsu did not appear in every instance of his life, he appeared in the ones that mattered. When his family's uncertainty frightened him, when his own confidence was severely rattled, when he needed that little push to fight for justice _twice_, when he was eaten alive by his own thoughts, and when he suffered.

"Why am _I_ special _to you?_" he throws back, looking to his feet, "Why are you always popping in and out like some kind of shoddy guardian?"

He's never really had an answer or a clue to such a thing. Yoshimitsu literally would randomly appear, and that's why, until now, he fought with himself, wondering if he's real or not. It's something he's never considered or thought of, not until now. And if past instances are anything to go by, when something as simple as a _name_ was impossible to drag out, then such an answer wou –

"Because you are a good man," he says simply, switching hands, "And good men are hard to come by. He who is not truly swayed by money or power, and only looks to make others as happy and safe as he can." Still holding the mask to his face, Yoshimitsu looks to Forest, "I am no hero, not even through your child eyes. But you are. The everyday man who always tries, always smiles and always aims to make others happy. That is more heroic than Robin Hood deeds."

Forest bites back whatever emotions he's feeling. Someone understands.

"I need you in my life, Yoshimitsu," he says again, "Not just for strength, but for guidance too."

He loves his Father, his Mother and Paul, but they generally gave him the same advice. Stick to your guns, work hard and get a damn good education. After that, work even harder and go after your dreams. But Yoshimitsu, he's been none of that – he's been a breath of fresh air, and with the smaller pieces of guidance, he's gotten through. He didn't really realise how much he appreciated that different perspective.

"Both come from within," he repeats flatly, looking back to the wall as though it's the most interesting thing in the world.

He folds into himself. Forest, at long last, gives up, and heads to the door. Before he leaves wholly, he turns over his shoulder and memorises him. If he can't have his hero in the flesh on occasion, just for a little boost, then he will remember every damn detail until he dances around in his memory and gives him strength to face the world's challenges through there.

"Goodbye," Forest mutters, slamming the door shut.

It rings through the large room. He doesn't see Yoshimitsu's shoulders roll forward.

* * *

He doesn't remember. Instead, he chooses to gradually forget, because it is painful to watch such an influential figure in his life leave.

Forest doesn't know what's happened to Yoshimitsu since the third tournament, or if he's done what he needed to do. A year passes a lot faster than they used to now, and he likes it that way, especially seeing as two slid by practically unnoticed. The quicker he can distance himself from those memories, the happier he'll be.

Marshall, as predicted, is furious at Paul for putting the idea into his head to participate in the King Of Iron Fist Tournament Three, but it's gotten a reward of sorts. His Father has completely lifted the rule about participating in tournaments, the one that'd been there since he was seven, and he's so happy. He feels freer, more confident, and overall happier.

He's due in for a tournament in a few days, just a small one. The family's a bit down on money again, so he plans to give half of the prize money to his family to help and the other half to a charity. It's the right thing to do, he thinks. It should be enough to help out his Mother and Father, and enough to make a difference in someone else's life.

Forest closes the door to the soup kitchen behind him. He is done volunteering for the day and wipes the light sheen of sweat from his forehead. He spots Paul's bike, waiting there for him. He would've chosen another mode of transportation for the day, but both cars were gone, and that's all that was left, much to his distaste.

And as the beast roars to life, he cautiously heads down the road, the wind blowing his hair in all kinds of directions.

The sound of the engine has always made him uncomfortable, but there's something about the way that the vehicle is handling at the moment that makes him nervous. Maybe it's because the road is a little slipper and it looks like it's going to rain again, or maybe it's because he's really damn tired and more uncoordinated. Whatever it is, Forest feels nervous.

The drive towards home is relatively quiet. There's little traffic on the road, until out of nowhere, a medium-sized vehicle comes out of another side road. And he's too slow, because everything is unfamiliar.

There's a loud bang. Forest yells.

There's another loud bang, and screeching, and screaming. He watches the sky.

There are curious voices, shouts for assistance and worried murmurs. His eyes crane to the left, where he sees what he thinks is his arm. It doesn't look quite right and the white of his clothes is now a mixture of red and dirt. His head throbs, and although Forest is lying down, it feels like the world is moving – like it's pulsing back and forth. His gut churns.

Something in the distance approaches.

Forest squeezes his eyes shut and counts to five. And when five passes, he opens them again, and there he is, standing before him. He bends down and smooths the hair from his eyes, and even in a new, more Eastern attire and behind a new mask, Forest still knows that Yoshimitsu frowns.

"Poor young one."

He wonders if he's hallucinating. For all accounts, he could be.

He tries to ask if he's real, but he it's like his mouth is stitched shut with blood. The world pulses again and he feels like he's gone deaf. Instead of asking such an irrelevant question, he instead focuses all of his remaining energies on parting his lips and saying something that is long, _long_ overdue.

And as Yoshimitsu leans in and lifts him in the fading world, Forest says, "Thank you."

* * *

The next time he hears and sees again, he lives in a room full of white. On the table beside him and the sleeping figure of his Father are posies and a note. It is folded, but propped upward, with the message facing outward. It is clear enough for him to read, and he smiles through the pain, knowing that yes, he's going to get through this and he'll be okay.

'_You are a good, strong, wise young man, Forest Law; you're welcome.  
- Robin Hood.'_

He'll come back. When he really needs him, Yoshimitsu always has, and always will come back, and he realises that now. Content with that fact, he turns his head and finds a window. The sun is bright as it crawls in past the glass and drapes him in warmth.

His smile, marred by a few cuts on either side, grows.


End file.
